Rather a slaughterhouse
Is this what it feels like to use loving hands to commit egregious acts?
Killed because they are too many
Some go silently as the razor slices their flesh
Covers and clapboards are returned effortlessly
Others, always the cheap paperbacks – gritty workers of the book world – hang on valiantly
Glue refuse to give
Words resist their oblivion
Yet still I lovingly tear ideas, thoughts and dreams to shreds
Page by page
Until they are no more